


Monsieur Potter's

by chwapen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Footnotes, Gen, Master of Death Harry Potter, Nick Fury is Not Amused, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, References to Depression, Tailor!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23800297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chwapen/pseuds/chwapen
Summary: One average day, Monsieur Potter's Robes for Every Occasion opens its doors.It rocks the universe to the core.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Avengers Team, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter
Comments: 37
Kudos: 276





	1. Prologue

“- just worried about you, Harry. We both are.”

“I know, I just…it’s hard, knowing…”

“We get it. We understand. Besides, we’ll always be with you, right?”

“I suppose.”

“So…?”

“Yeah. I guess I’ll be off. Bye, ‘Mione.”

“Goodbye, Harry.”

* * *

Tucked between two much taller buildings on the Bowery, just off 4th Street, is a tiny clothing shop that is never open.

It has a 1.2 star rating online with five reviews. Four of them are complaints about the perpetually locked doors and never answered phone, not to mention the hideous _are-those-robes-from-the-fifteenth-century_ spotted in the front display when they swung around. One reviewer managed to come by when the shop _was_ open, only to be faced with a note on the front desk saying in mockingly bubbly script, “In the back with a customer. Come by later! [1]” Needless to say, the store did not see much business.

Not in selling clothing, anyway. Harry Potter has never been much for fashion.

* * *

S.H.I.E.L.D. was vaguely aware of Monsieur Potter’s Robes for Every Occasion.[2] It wasn’t every day that an apparent millionaire appears out of nowhere, exchanges a few hundred pounds of gold[3] for American dollars, then spends some of it on a store that never opens.

After a few months of careful surveillance and a few sightings of the eccentric Monsieur Potter,[4] however, S.H.I.E.L.D. felt secure enough to drop the store’s continued surveillance down for some Level 1 technicians to deal with. There were no suspiciously large amounts of money being deposited into Monsieur Potter’s account, and the store’s lack of business appeared to stem from the very out-of-fashion robes the store was selling and Monsieur Potter’s reluctance to ever flip the “Closed” sign to “Open” rather than any nefarious machinations.

Some payments did begin to flow in around the half-year mark. They were, to the amusement of several technicians (who had little else to be entertained by), from a repair shop Monsieur Potter seemed to have set up inside his tailoring store. Most sightings of the man became him carting broken and repaired goods back and forth, always looking rather harried due to his extraordinarily messy hair and flapping robes. Some screenshots of Monsieur Potter’s worse moments were, of course, made into memes[5] and spread amongst the technicians.

As for the man himself, his was far from the strangest story S.H.I.E.L.D. had heard. Raised by extremely reclusive parents somewhere out in Scotland, Monsieur Potter had come rather abruptly into a large inheritance—one that checked out in S.H.I.E.L.D. 's books—and moved to America. It rather conveniently explained his . . . odd way of dress, hermit-like behavior, and insistence on living without technology.

All in all, S.H.I.E.L.D. had larger matters to deal with, and as things began to stir even the technicians turned their gossip and meme generators to rumors of one Steve Rogers, Captain America.

* * *

I’m sure I don’t need to explain all of what happened next, and indeed Monsieur Potter himself carried on quite as normal.[6] Until, that is, one eventful day involving a god of mischief and his scepter, a couple of meddling ghosts, and a note found in Fury’s pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 A date or time was, of course, not included with the note. Moreover, the note itself was written on a ratty piece of thick paper, and the bubbly letters were made that much more annoying by the fact that they seemed to have been painstakingly scratched out with a _quill_. [return to text]
> 
> 2 And really, it was a wonder that people even rung the place up, with a name like that. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Almost crashing the market in the process—it took the combined scrambling efforts of several nations to stabilize the gold trade once more. [return to text]
> 
> 4 His usual outfit, many agents were amused to notice, involved one of the robes he sold that had a roaring lion on the back. He sometimes even wore a complementary witch hat. [return to text]
> 
> 5 An activity completely against regulations and completely enjoyed by many technicians—and some higher ups. [return to text]
> 
> 6 For his sense of the word, of course. [return to text]
> 
> * * *
> 
> So...I have a general idea of where this is going. Please do not expect any quick updates, and I apologize for the overabundance of footnotes. Hopefully that will die down in future chapters.


	2. In Which Fury Takes a Gamble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury regrets everything, and Harry meets three of the Avengers.

It’s a strange feeling, experiencing a void one moment and weight the next. In this case, the void was Fury’s pocket, and the weight was a folded-up piece of parchment he drew out of it. The note, spidery text written with green ink, read:

> _MONSIEUR POTTER’S ROBES FOR EVERY OCCASION is happy to provide SELF-IRONING, SELF-FOLDING, SELF-ADJUSTING robes for . . . you guessed it! Every occasion! Swing by now for 20% OFF your first purchase._
> 
> _P.S. MAGICAL PROBLEMS of all shapes and sizes dealt with for FREE! FREE! FREE!_

The headache pounding behind Fury’s missing eye grew worse.

* * *

After the validity of Monsieur Potter’s abilities were confirmed,[1] he was brought to a nondescript office building that served as S.H.I.E.L.D. 's main headquarters in New York and sat down inside what looked suspiciously like an interrogation cell. He didn’t seem to mind, instead swinging his legs a little and humming under his breath.

He was sitting there for hours before the door swung open and a techie tentatively stepped in, bearing a tablet open to a video call with the Director himself. Setting it across from the man, she slowly backed away, understandably eager to be away from the very intense glare Fury was sporting. The one-eyed stare was set on Harry as he took in the other man’s rumpled robes, wide green eyes, and pointed hat set askew on a shock of messy black hair for several minutes before finally nodding.

“Bring him up,” he commanded curtly before abruptly ending the call.

The techie was already formatting a “modern problems require modern solutions” meme in her head as she escorted Harry out.[2]

* * *

“He seems alright.”

“That’s all you can give us?” Fury asked, narrowing his eye at the man standing next to Hawkeye’s unconscious form, “I don’t arrest you, don’t send you to interrogation, let you wave a pointy stick at one of my best agents, and all you can say is ‘seems alright’?”

Harry, nonplussed, simply shrugged. “You didn’t even tell me what was wrong with him. Looks like he just took a beating is all.”

Fury sighed, clearly reluctant to part with any information. “He was brainwashed. I want to know if he still is.”

Fury could hear a muttered word as Harry turned back to the archer. Whether it was a spell or a curse of the non-magical variety he couldn’t tell, but he nonetheless watched with veiled interest as the wizard stared unblinkingly at Barton for several long seconds before visibly shaking himself, as if out of a stupor.

“His mind looks clean.”

“You . . . can read minds.”[3]

“I’m not the best,” Harry responded breezily, “But I’ve had experience with mind-meddling assholes[4] once or twice before, and it seems like Clint is fine now.”

“ _Clint_ ,” Fury muttered, “Unbelievable.”

* * *

Less than an hour later, said man woke to the sight of green eyes and an unfamiliar face.

Instantly, a knife[5] was flying through the air, though it simply clattered harmlessly against an invisible barrier surrounding the stranger and fell to the ground. Clint clutched his head as the movement jarred his head and groaned.

“What the hell?”

“Headaches are an unfortunate side effect of being mind-whammied then hit in the head, sorry,” Harry remarked, gingerly picking up the knife and holding it between two fingers.

“What the hell,” Clint repeated.

“I don’t think Fury was expecting you to wake up so early. He just left. I can call him back if you prefer?”

Clint glared at him balefully. “Who are you,” he gritted out, flatly. Harry grinned cheerfully back and swept into a flourishing bow.

“Monsieur Potter, here to provide robes for every occasion and, of course, service your magical needs! Don’t worry, you’re not brainwashed anymore. I made sure of that. Your dog is adorable, by the way.”

Clint let his head fall to the uncomfortable pillow with a thump. “Please just kill me.”

“That can be arranged,” Harry said brightly, brandishing Clint’s knife.

Of course, that was when Natasha Romanoff walked in.

* * *

Several bruises, hurried explanations, and narrowed eyes later,[6] Harry was seated on a Quinjet heading to New York City. Natasha was icy cold and Steve was very confused, but Clint actually kinda liked the guy now that he knew he wasn’t going to kill him.

“World War II?” Harry was asking the Captain as Clint piloted the jet through the air.

"You know. Nazis? Death?" Steve said, a bit incredulous at the thought that someone could _not_ know what World War II was.

“Oh, Grindel- They call it something different where I’m from.”

“. . . Oh?” Steve asked, not really knowing what to say to that, but not wanting to seem impolite.

“Yeah. My old headmaster served in it,” Harry noted, not including the fact that Albus Dumbledore did, in fact, _win_ the war. This universe didn’t have any wizards, as far as he was aware.

Steve nodded, already warming to the strange man, but a glare from Natasha up in the front was enough to clam him up for the rest of the ride. Harry, unperturbed, withstood the silence gamely, jolting with the rest of them as their jet was hit by a blast from Loki,[7] though he did subtly stick himself to his seat as they made a perilous touchdown.

Leaping out of the jet with the rest of them, Harry looked around the ruined city before locking eyes with the beam, located on a tall tower, that seemed to be the source of the portal.

“You guys deal with the aliens, I take the magic stuff?” he suggested.

“Harry- ” Clint started, but it was too late. With a loud pop, the wizard was gone.

. . . Only to reappear a nanosecond later in front of Erik Selvig, who was slowly coming to from unconsciousness to find himself face-to-face with the tip of Harry’s wand.[8]

“You were the one who set all this up?” Harry asked dangerously, green eyes sparking.

“I . . . was brainwashed, and . . .” the scientist trailed off hopelessly, but the wizard had already relaxed, sticking his wand back in its holster and doing a complete one-eighty from his previous threatening demeanor.

“Just like Clint, huh,” the wizard mused. Erik nodded. “So, what’s your name?”

“Erik, Erik Selvig.”

“And I’m Harry. Well, Erik, know how to close this thing?” he asked, gesturing up at the swirling portal that was still spitting out aliens.

“I- I think built in a failsafe, if you use the scepter. But it’s risky, and it might-“

“I can close it without the scepter,” Harry interrupted him, still staring at the machine. He couldn't explain it, but some primal part of him _knew_ he could do it.

“Really,” Erik said doubtfully, “And how exactly are you planning on doing that?”

Harry grinned. “Magic,” he proclaimed with jazz hands.

He ignored Erik’s spluttering, instead turning to the machine in front of him and furrowing his brow as he let the energy of the cube finally hit him. It almost felt like a . . . but no, that was impossible.

Casting thoughts of basilisks and dark caves out of his mind, Harry drew his wand before considering his next move. He had no spells, no experience with this sort of thing but something about the cube _called_ to him, so frowning and tucking the stick of wood away again he closed his eyes and simply . . . reached out.

It came to him instinctually, almost like Quidditch. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was chasing, but he could catch a glint here, a flutter there, and it was only a matter of following it. He was so engrossed that Natasha joining them on the roof didn’t even register with him. Neither did Iron Man crashing into the side of the building, though both Natasha and Erik watched with wide eyes and bated breath as the suit of armor spiraled high into the sky.

Harry didn’t know how long he was immersed in the cube — seconds, minutes, _hours_? — but gradually, the cube halted its revolution and eventually just hung there, suspended in the portal machine. The beam thinned, and only Natasha, with her eyes trained on the sky,[9] saw the figure falling through the remnants of the portal before it finally disappeared.

The wizard reached out and grabbed the glowing cube, holding a bit gingerly in his hand as he looked around awkwardly. Thankfully, Erik stepped in and took the tesseract from him, placing it inside a briefcase. All three of them heaved a sigh of relief when it snapped closed.

“Well, that’s that,” Harry remarked. Erik wearily nodded, though Natasha was already making her way to the stairway, talking quickly to whoever was on the other end of her headset.

Harry made to follow her, but was called aside by an agent. “Monsieur Potter? Erik Selvig? Fury wants to see you,” he said in an apologetic tone. Harry let out an exaggerated groan but, with one last look back at the Black Widow, followed the agent and the scientist to the waiting Quinjet.

* * *

“Can you revive him?”

Harry let out a whistle. “That’s a dead body if I ever saw one.”

Fury resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Not what I asked, Monsieur Potter.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Harry grumbled. “But you have to give me a reason. You don’t just mess around with the universe like this for no reason.”

“We’re trying to _save_ the universe. This is the only way I know how,” Fury said, unable to mask his frustration.

There was a long pause as the wizard leveled green eyes at the Director, trapping him in a swirling emerald gaze. Fury for a moment felt like he was staring into the eyes of something ancient, something infinitely powerful, something staring straight into his soul—but then Harry blinked and the glimmer of otherworldliness was gone, leaving a rumpled, unthreatening man behind.

“Chocolate,” Monsieur Potter declared, “I need chocolate.”

Several minutes later Coulson was sleeping peacefully on his hospital bed, and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top doctors were staring with awe and a bit of hunger at Harry, who was ignoring them all in favor of the silky dark chocolate someone had hastily procured.

“If anyone asks, you failed,” Fury growled.

Harry, no stranger to having to play dead for the greater good, chirped around a mouthful of sugar, “Okay.”

* * *

After being let go,[10] Harry was escorted back to his store, Fury promising to send a jet to fetch him if they needed his help again. He may have neglected to mention the broomstick sitting in a closet in the tiny studio apartment above the shop, but he really did not want to sit through another round of questioning and threats.

Harry bounced out of the unremarkable van he was stuffed into and made sure to wave in the general direction of a security camera[11] before entering his building. As soon as the door closed behind him, he let the facade drop and sagged against it, letting out a deep, shaky sigh.

Gathering himself, the wizard shuffled up the stairs and put the kettle on, absentmindedly closing the curtains with a flick of his wand before sinking down into one of the few pieces of furniture he had in his tiny studio - a marvelously squishy red couch.

He had to pour an entire vial of Calming Draught into his tea to stop the trembling of his hands.

* * *

“Don’t look at me like that- Are you _laughing_?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just not surprised. You always did have a saving people thing.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . What does Hermione think?”

“Um . . . I dunno. Haven’t asked.”

“Pfft. Typical.”

"Oy, shut up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 S.H.I.E.L.D. had _protocols_. Monsieur Potter seemed equal parts impressed and amused. [return to text]
> 
> 2 The power of boredom, even in a high-security, top-secret government facility, should not be underestimated. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Fury couldn't believe he had let an _unknown_ read one of his best agent’s minds. He hated feeling stupid. [return to text]
> 
> 4 At least this one, from what Harry had seen in Clint's head, had a nose. [return to text]
> 
> 5 Harry had no idea where it came from. These S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were really something else. [return to text]
> 
> 6 Natasha filed away the muttered, "Are _all_ redheads like this?" for . . . later use. [return to text]
> 
> 7 Suddenly, Monsieur Potter's getup didn't seem so strange. He was a big disgruntled about that. [return to text]
> 
> 8 Admittedly, it's hard to make a piece of wood look threatening, but Harry managed. [return to text]
> 
> 9 Erik at this point was looking askance at Harry (who was still wearing a witch hat) doing the impossible right in front of him. [return to text]
> 
> 10 But not, it is to be noted, before signing approximately way too many papers and being threatened by Fury repeatedly. [return to text]
> 
> 11 Somewhere in the New York headquarters, a techie suffered a sudden coughing fit. [return to text]
> 
> * * *
> 
> Some of you may have caught it, but I much prefer Clint from comic verse. I feel like him being a bachelor in a run-down apartment with a one-eyed dog, fighting the Russian mafia just adds so much to his character. Please excuse the lack of Laura Barton and their children.


	3. In Which Harry has a Very Bad, Not Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry really doesn't know what he did to deserve this.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Trigger warnings: mentions of depression and PTSD

Harry knew as soon as opening his eyes took a herculean amount of effort that it was not going to be a good day.

They tended to creep up on him, days where his limbs felt like lead and a cold tightness radiated in pulses from the pit of his stomach and crawled up the back of his throat. It was best, he had learned, to stay in bed all day and ride it out.

Certain someones disagreed.[1]

* * *

“Harry, you can’t go on like this.”

“‘Mione’s right, man. C’mon, get up.”

“I know. ‘M just tired.”

“What happened to Monsieur Potter? Never tired, always cheerful and messy and-”

“I don’t feel like lying today.”

“Harry . . .”

“Why did you bloody call us then?”

“Ron!”

“Look at him! He knows he’ll be better off if he gets up. He just called us to kick him out of bed, like always.”

“Really, Ron . . .”

“‘S alright, ‘Mione. It’s true.”

“Still . . . We’ll leave you be, then - come _on_ , Ron - as long as you promise to at least make some tea.”

“Mm.”

* * *

Harry made it all the way to the kitchen area of his studio before he heard knocking coming from downstairs. Grumbling a little to himself about meddling best friends, he made the executive decision to ignore the sound, instead bustling about making himself a good cup of tea.

Five minutes later his temples had started pounding to the rhythm of the incessant rapping, and the wizard had finally had enough.

Storming downstairs he slammed open the door and fixed a glare of death at whoever was on the other side, only to let out a squawk as his nose was gripped firmly and twisted until his eyes watered. “Is that how you look at your elders, _sonja_?” he heard. Through his tears he could see floral print and immediately knew who he was talking to.

“Hey, Miss Kim,” Harry responded, resigned. 

‘Miss Kim,’ as the lady insisted people call her, was an old woman with wispy gray hair and piercing brown eyes who lived a couple of buildings down from Monsieur Potter’s. Her face was wrinkled and her posture was stooped, but she was still surprisingly limber for her age, and her mind was as sharp as Draco’s chin. In fact, Harry was pretty sure she should have been arrested a couple times before for some of the things she did, but she always managed to weasel out of it. He was half convinced[2] she acted like that only because she knew she could get away with it. No one was actually going to _do_ anything to a batshit crazy elderly woman, and if they attempted to, Harry and everyone else on the block would come rushing to her aid.

After shooing off Miss Kim with promises to bring the old album she had asked him to repair with him the next time he dropped by for coffee, the wizard headed back up the stairs. As horribly as the day had started out, he was actually . . . feeling a bit lighter now. Maybe his friends actually had a point.

All traces of that good mood evaporated when he entered the apartment to find Clint Barton standing in the middle of the room.

* * *

“Don’t you have bad guys to shoot and one-eyed dogs to feed?” Harry asked, clearly still pissed off. At least he now had a steaming cup of tea in his hands, which he cooled to the perfect temperature using a nifty spell and took an angry sip. The archer looked appropriately chagrined, but didn’t appropriately get the hell out of Harry’s apartment. After a short staring contest, Harry sighed and sat down on his couch, motioning for Clint to join him. The agent hurriedly complied, immediately adopting a surprised look when he sunk a good few inches into the couch. Harry smirked a bit at that but asked in an idle tone, “So why’re you here?”

Clint was clearly hesitant. Harry definitely _hoped_ this was his first time breaking into someone’s home, though considering his occupation, that was very unlikely.

“. . . Well, I probably wouldn’t have been allowed back on active duty so soon if you hadn’t talked to Fury, so . . . Thanks?”

Harry almost pinched the bridge of his nose[3] but snapped himself out of it, waving a hand. “Just doing my job,” he said wearily.

“What exactly is that, by the way?” Clint couldn’t help but ask curiously. 

Harry supposed he hadn’t really introduced himself fully back on the Helicarrier, so he allowed a short, “Magical consultant, I think is the official name.”

“Oh. Huh.”

Harry was expecting a stronger reaction than _that_ , but he wasn’t complaining.[4] They sat in silence for a few moments, Clint clearly not knowing what to do with himself after breaking in and thanking Harry. The wizard, unfazed, let him stew while sipping his brew.[5]

After taking the final sip of his tea, Harry finally spoke. “I’m sure you actually have work to do, and I have to finish up a few orders. Is there anything else?” he asked, managing to sound genuinely curious despite his general dismissive tone. 

It seemed to be the push Clint needed, because he fidgeted a bit before finally saying, in a rather meek tone, “I was . . . wondering if you had anything for nightmares?

“I’m not a vending machine, Barton,” Harry grumbled, “Go see a damn therapist.” He chose to ignore the irony in him, of all people, saying that, though he could just _see_ Hermione and Ron rolling their eyes at him.

“Oh,” the archer sighed, sounding absolutely dejected. Harry looked over. He looked like a kicked puppy, somehow using his bulging biceps and defined deltoids[6] to make himself even smaller and more pitiful.

Harry groaned. “Fine, fine,” he said, muttering under his breath about hero complexes and damn puppy eyes as he rose from the couch and headed to the kitchen, where he pulled open a random drawer. Grabbing a spoon[7] and Transfiguring it into a dreamcatcher with the Deathly Hallows symbol displayed prominently within the hoop, he muttered some enchantments over it before tossing it to the archer, who caught it without fumbling.

“Here. Hang this up in your room; it should help.”

“Wow- Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me _now_. You don’t even know if it works. Shoo,” he directed, starting to wave Clint out of the apartment.

The archer refused to budge, instead fixing the wizard with a serious look in his eyes. “Really, Harry. Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just leave me alone,” Harry said with a roll of his eyes, but the archer could see them soften around the edges. He couldn’t hold back a smile as he allowed himself to be pushed out of the apartment, one hand wrapped securely around the good night’s sleep contained in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Including the recorder of this story. If you can’t handle it on your own, don’t be afraid to get help. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Who was he kidding; he was _fully_ convinced. [return to text]
> 
> 3 Merlin’s beard, government agents clearly needed a crash course in showing gratitude. Cardmaking 101, How to Not be an Asshole and Break in Through a Damn Window . . . the possibilities were endless. [return to text]
> 
> 4 S.H.I.E.L.D. had, of course, attempted to learn Harry’s full family history and childhood in excruciating detail. He had fed them some vague bullshit about “coming into his powers” and “finding his way,” then threatened to turn them all into corgis and humiliate them at Corgi Con if they questioned him further. Some agents looked worriedly excited about that, but thankfully they gave it a rest. [return to text]
> 
> 5 He chuckled a bit at the rhyme. He could totally see an eleven-year-old Ron falling for _that_ one. [return to text]
> 
> 6 Alliteration now? Harry was on a _roll_. [return to text]
> 
> 7 It was one of his favorites, too. Nothing could scoop the perfect ratio of soggy cereal and lukewarm milk quite like this one could. [return to text]
> 
> * * *
> 
> Sorry for the super short update; I got a bit sick (feeling better now, thankfully) and just couldn’t get into the swing of things. 
> 
> Also, just wondering if the number of footnotes is getting out of hand? I feel like they’re fun but I don’t want to distract from reading, and there are a lot of footnotes concentrated in this thing. How do you feel about them?


End file.
